


consumed

by literarydiarrhea



Category: my hero - Fandom, 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Aged Up, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Quirks (My Hero Academia), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anxiety Attacks, Character Study, Dreams, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Getting Together, Healing and New Beginnings, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Kinda?, Light Angst, M/M, Midoriya Izuku is Bad at Feelings, Multi, Mutual Pining, Oral Sex, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Self esteem issues and healing, Shameless Smut, Shy Midoriya Izuku, Smut, Soft Bakugou Katsuki, bakudeku, firefighter bakugo katsuki, no beta we die like men, no seriously there is a gratuitous amount of dreaming, non-linear structure during some chapters, on chapter 7 so beware, tags to be updated with chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-21
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2020-10-25 01:20:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20715728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literarydiarrhea/pseuds/literarydiarrhea
Summary: Izuku has done his best to create a life for himself, rebuilding his days after a life altering, traumatic event. But, in the process, he's avoided anything that could make him feel too much outside of the safe shell he's cautiously re-built. That is, until he spots a red eyed stranger through his apartment window one afternoon, and suddenly he can't stop looking.





	1. Courtyard

**Author's Note:**

> (See the end of the chapter for notes.)

Izuku didn’t intend to keep staring at him, but the thing is, he just never expected to physically bump into him. In hindsight he realised that, statistically, this line of thought didn’t make much sense seeing as they lived in the same building. It’s not like Izuku hadn’t seen him regularly over the past three months since he’d moved into the place. He’d first seen him on his sketching break when he'd finally stood, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders after spending hours hunched tightly. He’d twisted his body, turning his head leisurely toward his window, only to see the blond bustle into the apartment complex through the courtyard entrance. It wasn't the movement that caught his attention, as the man advanced swiftly along the slabbed pathway leading neatly between lush autumn blooms. It was the hands. Those hands, that made Izuku pause and straighten in focus. The clenched fists, flexing and releasing periodically in the stranger’s jean pockets, as if he were expecting something to jump out at him in an instant from between the dahlias and begonias.

Ever since, a sort of voyeuristic interlude had crept its way into Izuku’s daily schedule, silently yet assuredly making home between his usual cycle of illustrating and watching old reruns of All Might cartoons, to now include waiting with bated breath for the blond to return to the complex, just so he could watch him move for a few minutes. The hunched posture, the clenched fists buried deep in his pockets belied the quiet confidence and seeming calm outwardly presented. Sometimes, Izuku felt as if he could almost see it. The heat underneath the stranger’s skin…simmering quietly.

Izuku looked forward to his glimpses of the stranger, even when he'd complete the most mundane of tasks; collecting missed packages after work, the boxes nearly obscuring the large 1-a fire department logo on his shirt, bringing home take out from the local restaurant, or walking alongside the heavyset man with the bright red hair. That was how Izuku learned his name, swept up lazily from the lips of the cheery redhead by the cool autumn air, dancing in fluidly past the pane of his open window.  


“Bakugo”.

Sometimes, if Izuku was lucky, he’d catch the blond holding something, or even better, eating something. Peeling the skin off of a ripe orange, dexterously, those long fine boned fingers moving slowly across its flesh, the juice dripping lazily down his thumb and forefinger, sliding onto his wrist before he’d bend his head and lick it off in one long swipe.

Once, when Izuku mustered up the courage to leave the apartment at the busiest time of day, he’d even walked past Bakugo. Head down, feet shuffling tentatively across the carpeted hallway and surrounded by a chorus of everyday chatter, a decidedly peculiar thought had urged its way across his mind. Look up. Look up, Izuku. 

Up close, the man was reminiscent of dormant volcanism. So impossibly imposing, a presence so quietly consuming, that it seemed to encompass every inch of space. The dark fabric of his gym clothing stretched wide over the planes of his chest and arms, pulling tight over thick thighs as he walked. Every movement controlled, cutting through the hallway assuredly, pushing and pulling through the space like a magma rolling through a cliff side. 

Miraculously, Izuku managed to move his legs normally, as if he wasn’t an outstretched arm away from the man who’d been the subject of his daydreams for the past few months, the man who’d made Izuku question whether he’d developed the most mundane voyeuristic kink known to man. Because isn’t that what he was now? A voyeur? Izuku tossed this thought around his brain, muttering, muttering as the blond strode towards him in what felt like slow motion… until he caught a glimpse of his eyes under the veil of blond hair, that is. 

They were red. Deep, fathomless red. Eyes to fall into, as elemental as the flames Izuku knew Bakugo fought every day, bubbling beneath the surface.

Simmering…simmering.


	2. Sorahiko’s

The almost meeting, or The Encounter as Izuku had taken to calling it, both exhilarated and frightened him. The conflicting emotions would ebb and flow, heave and murmur, like a tide within his chest. Sometimes the feelings would swell so sweetly, bloom so widely, that he felt as if he would burst out of his skin, only to be left exposed and raw with nothing to tie him together again. As if his bones and muscles were simply too frail and unused to withhold such fragile optimism. But, as swiftly as it would rise, the optimism would retract. Withdrawing swiftly and leaving no trace of its presence, as if it never were. 

It doesn’t quite seem to fit, does it? Izuku had thought to himself wryly. The veritable recluse who whispered his way through hallways, interacting with Bakugo. A man who seemed to leave a trail of ash smouldering in his wake. Bakugo was simply too much for him, Izuku decided. Too visceral, too big, simply too much. His quiet confidence screamingly obvious, his presence alone as intense as physical touch. 

But that didn’t stop his fingers from itching to draw him, the urge pushing its way through his fingers, moving his legs toward his desk like an invisible puppeteer. Izuku was well aware that he was now teetering on the edge of stalker level proportions, but the need to create a Bakugo with a tolerable level of intensity within lines of ink, rather than the real man who held the threat of burning Izuku to a crisp if he lay his eyes on him proved too tempting. He couldn’t help but compare his own pale, freckled and scar ridden skin to the smooth golden tan of Bakugo’s as he recalled what had led him to this point. Sitting snugly in his worn All Might pyjamas, fingers ink stained and aching, surrounded by recollections of a surly mouth shaped like a kiss and deep red eyes heavy with feelings he’d never share with you, now imprinted onto paper.

It was the conversation, if you could call it that. He’d been waiting, the gentle hum of voices from customers swirling around Izuku’s ears as he stood in line at Sorahiko’s café, peering at the glazed pastries and rich cakes through the clear glass counter. Izuku often visited the café, only a short walk from his apartment complex. He enjoyed the worn décor, the warm aroma of soups and cakes and coffees, the inviting cushioned booths and the soothing yellow lighting so unlike the high gleamed furniture and harsh fluorescent glare of chain coffee shops. He’d just made his decision, a raspberry and white chocolate muffin, and was digging through his backpack for his wallet when he spotted him in the reflection of the glass. Reclined deep into a booths’ cushioned seats, surrounded by three others, the white 1-A fire station logo’s contrasting starkly with the dark material of their shirts. No big deal, Izuku thought. Except, it really was, because Bakugo was bringing a spoon of soup to his lips, arm rising and falling in smooth motions, strong pectorals moving beneath his clothing. It wasn’t the musculature that kept Izuku’s eye, though. It was the way Bakugo put his thumb and forefinger to his lips, dragging his tongue over a droplet that had slipped off the spoon and over his skin. Izuku didn't even know how to process it, the innocuous gesture making his face flame, making him wonder what else Bakugo would lave so attentively with his tongue. 

By the time Izuku completed his order and carried his muffin, wallet and coffee awkwardly to a small corner booth, his heart had already begun hammering frantically in his chest. The beat reverberated in his ears so loudly that by the time he sat, he’d almost began to worry that somehow, Bakugo may have been able to hear it. Izuku wondered yet again, was this was another transgression? Just exactly how odd was it that he’d broken his schedule yet again for this stranger, even if it was by just sitting in the café rather than returning home immediately as he usually would. He worried the waxy muffin case between his thumb and forefinger, mulling over this anomalous decision when the voice cut through the low hum of conversation filling the room. A voice reminiscent of warlords from days gone by. A low, gravelly intonation that rumbled up the blond’s chest and burned its way out of his throat. 

“In what way is she frail...can’t you see that fucking logo on her shirt?”

Izuku brought his head up swiftly as the sound of Bakugo's voice tore through the jovial atmosphere of the cafe. He took in the sight of Bakugo gesturing to the small, rosy cheeked brunette to his right, posture leaned protectively toward her despite his gaze, fixed and fierce onto the smaller man with the peculiar bubble-like hairstyle. Izuku watched, transfixed as the other red haired companion lifted his hands in misplaced mollification, attempting to ease the situation in hurried, hushed tones. In fact, Izuku was so fixated on the redhead in that moment that he’d not even noticed Bakugo’s shrewd red gaze moving across the room. His harsh glare issuing a silent challenge to nosy bystanders, but slowing, stopping…focusing on Izuku. Moving over his freckled face, his rosebud mouth, his wide doe eyes…lingering.

It was only later in the evening that Izuku realised. Long after the café had closed and the night had brushed the skies a deep black, after he'd curled into his warm plush sofa and hidden his drawings away in the bottom of his desk. He’d forgotten his wallet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's noticed ₍₍ (ง ˙ω˙)ว ⁾⁾


	3. ID

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that the tags and rating have changed friends.

The temperature changed first. The heat rising slowly, cutting its way through the fogginess of his mind. Izuku felt the images evolving, the eroticism bleeding into the fringes of his thoughts until it pulsed heavily throughout his head, reverberating into his ears, sweeping behind his closed eyelids. It pulsed through his body, too. A pleasant heaviness unfurling languidly from his toes to the roots of his hair, brushing across his body like heavy silk.

Red silk. A strange, molten red twisting alongside burnished gold like an inferno, rolling along his body, curling, sliding, morphing. The colours of his drawings becoming incarnate in his mind, limbs imprinted onto paper now moving alongside his own flesh. Big calloused hands sliding up, up, along his shins, onto the sensitive soft skin behind his knees…resting heavily on his thighs. Izuku’s freckled body, feverish and exposed, had become intertwined deeply with…something…_something_.

A man. That was it…a _man_.

Even in this dreamy haze, Izuku had tried to retreat, inverting into himself and curling away. But that had only seemed to make the colours clearer, more distinct. The red and gold hardening into lines so clear, Izuku could make out the fine blond hair lightly dusting the man’s hands as they slid behind his thighs, holding Izuku in place as the man bent his blond head, extended his tongue and slowly licked an obscene path along the join of Izukus thigh, holding him tighter as he squirmed. Izuku pressed his own knuckles deeply into his mouth at this image, muffling his whimpers, his pleasured gasps coloured with disbelief as he watched the man move closer to the source of the heavy ache clouding his judgement. Surely, he wouldn’t, Izuku thought. Not _that_, not to _him_. Not even here in his dreamscape had he ever allowed himself such self-indulgent fantasia, but dream Bakugo didn’t seem to care about Izuku’s hang ups. He just continued to lave his tongue over his skin, onto his cock, his plump pink lips mouthing long, hot kisses over Izuku’s heated flesh, sucking him into his hot mouth and making Izuku thrum with a pleasure he could barely define. Bakugo’s eyes were closed, long blond lashes creating shadows over his distended cheeks and Izuku watched himself slide in and out of his mouth. Warm, so warm and so tight. Izuku couldn’t help but rock his hips up into it, craving the suction, awed past the point of self-consciousness, his own lips and tongue wrapped lewdly over the knuckles he’d pushed into his mouth, imagining that they were a cock, _Bakugo’s_ cock.

Just when Izuku neared the end, when the pleasure turned molten in his stomach, when white heat began to burn up the edges of his vision and the feeling became so all-consuming that he wanted to turn back, Bakugo released him from his mouth. His palms gripping Izuku tightly, moving up and down along the sensitive underside of Izuku’s flesh, made slick from Bakugo’s spit.

Don’t stop Izuku wanted to tell him, needed to tell him. He was so close, so frustrated, he needed more, something more, a little bit more…and he got it. When the blond moved up, hands still moving over his sensitive flesh, wet lips pressing hotly to Izuku’s burning ear…that voice. That low, molten voice rumbling through his head, straight to his cock.

“Yeah that’s it, that’s it, you’re so hot Izuku…make me wanna eat you up...fill you up. C’mon…let me hear it, I wanna hear _you_….”

Izuku broke into pieces so hard, it seemed as if the orgasm slammed into every fibre of his being. His heart raced, vision fading in and out, turning too white even as he jolted awake. Hunched over, chest heaving, sheets wet at the crotch and sweat sticking his curls to the back of his neck. Heart beating alone in the dark.

Izuku had decided, as he stepped along the busy main street, that this event had marked his official descent into the deep end. It was one thing to spend what felt like every spare minute poring over a man he’d never exchanged words with, but it was another thing entirely to have his subconscious invaded, saturated with images of him as well. Every time he closed his eyes, the images would play out like a film reel as if the dream was permanently stamped behind his eyelids. The mere thought of the dream flustered Izuku so greatly that he was still red cheeked when he pushed open the door to Sorahiko’s, the bell jingling in greeting as he stepped into the warm café. His cheeks still hadn’t cooled by the time he stood by the counter, fingers tapping nervously on the glass as he spoke to Sorahiko himself, the old man zooming through tasks so quickly it seemed as if he was powered by jet fuel.

“You’re out of luck my boy” Sorahiko had replied distractedly, when Izuku had stuttered nervously about his missing wallet “I haven’t seen any wallets left about around here.”

Izuku worried about his wallet as he walked through his apartment complex’s courtyard, already planning on phoning his bank and cancelling his cards, wondering how to get a new form of ID, thinking forlornly about all the reward cards he’d lost. Izuku was so lost in thought in fact, that he wasn’t even thinking about Bakugo for once, so when he turned the corner into his hallway and saw him standing there, dressed in all black with his arms crossed, big body leaning on the painted wall across from Izuku’s door, the shock had nearly taken him out. Izuku’s heart stuttered in his chest as he leapt back behind the corner, pressing his hand to his mouth to muffle the squeak of shock that had leapt out of his mouth.

_Oh god, it’s him, why is he there…is he waiting for me…? _

_No, he can’t be, he’s never even looked at me. _

_He must be waiting for someone else…maybe the red-haired guy, what was his name again? _

_Maybe I should just go back to Sorahiko’s, wait there for a bit…_

Izuku began to retreat, feet shuffling back over the thick carpeting, making his movements as quiet as possibl-

“What the fuck are you doing, you think I can’t see you hiding there, huh?”

The sound of Bakugo’s voice was so jarring, Izuku nearly jumped out of his skin, embarrassment rushing from his feet to the roots of his hair. How else could he react when he’d just been caught fleeing from a stranger for no apparent reason?

“I’m not hiding” Izuku said quickly…the words spilling from his mouth before he could stop them, sounding as guilty as child who’d just been caught with cookie crumbs on their face, in front of an empty cookie jar.

“Oh, you’re not huh? guess I must be imagining you standing there trying to creep off, terribly by the way” Bakugo’s voice faltered for a moment, as if considering something, “and I must definitely be imagining that the photo on this ID looks exactly like you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> cliffhangers are a sin and I am a SINNER


	4. Palms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please note the tag changes for trigger warnings friends. Thank you so much for taking the time to read, comment and leave kudos. It is incredibly appreciated. Talk to me in the comments if you'd like!

When Izuku was younger, he’d grown to hate watermelons. With his green hair, his sporadic freckles, his pale skin so easily flushed and his perpetually anxious disposition, infant Izuku had seemed to exist in a state of permanent melon-esque imitation. Even now, when he was really nervous, when sweat would bead on his palms and his blood would rush and tickle beneath his skin, he felt as if he could hear the jeers of his childhood classmates in his ears fresh and anew…throwing that word at him in between shoves and pinches.

He could feel that level of nervousness now, pushing up, heating him up, like his insides were filled with steam_. I can’t go out there and stand in front of him_, he thought, not after he’d had the most intense orgasm of his life and had come so hard he’d seen stars to the mere thought of the man.

But then, Bakugo spoke again, filling the air after Izuku’s tense silence as he stood still, blood rushing in his ears, still pressed against the painted cream walls.

“You know, I’m starting to wonder if you really are a figment of my imagination, or maybe there’s something keeping you there…you got some sort of wall fetish I should know about?”

Izuku leapt away from the wall so quickly he nearly made himself dizzy, stepping right into the hallway, _definitely _red faced now after hearing the word fetish rasped out in Bakugo’s smoke and silk baritone.

“Hey, there you are”

Bakugo announced at Izuku’s not so sudden appearance, his voice lifting instantly, sounding springier, sultrier, bouncier, as he straightened his body and pushed away from the wall. Izuku didn’t expect that from his previous sightings of the man. He’d expected thinly veiled aggression, maybe an insult about his forgetfulness before his wallet tossed was tossed at his feet, but no.

“You know, you should really be more careful”

Bakugo continued as Izuku’s eyes ate up the sight of him. Ravenously. Taking in the thick shoulders and thighs, the blonde hair glinting like burnished gold under the hallway lights, his angular features downturned as he continued to look at Izuku’s ID.

“Saw this on the booth after you left, couldn’t even see you on the street after a minute, fast little fucker aren’t you” he smiled as he opened Izuku’s wallet and pushed the ID back in.

And then Bakugo looked up at Izuku. Really looked at him – as if he couldn’t get enough of his features up close, darting over his face and lingering over his curls, his freckles, his mouth in a way that made Izuku’s heart thump, thump, thump in a way he’d disallowed for a long time. But then of course he ruined it by talking, or more like, vomiting up words at light speed.

“I- uh yeah…thank you so much” Izuku sputtered, excitement and nerves turning his gaze downward. Hope blooming, cradled, fragile and naked within his chest. “I was so worried about the wallet I couldn’t stop thinking about it all day, it’s a limited edition All Might wallet that my mother bought me years ago and I don’t even know how I’d get a new one let alone tell my mother that I lost it because I really think it would hurt her feelings so much because she actually queued up to get it so really thank yo-“

“Fuck, dude, calm down and take a breath, shit” Bakugo broke in, stepping forward, holding out Izuku’s wallet in his hands, turning the familiar yellow and blue toned item in his hands “you know I didn’t peg you for such a fucking nerd…”

Izuku froze, insides slowly sinking, freezing, withering up like petals in snow. Maybe he’d gotten Bakugo all wrong Izuku thought to himself, how much can you even know about a person from just watching them occasionally…maybe he was like Tomura after all. He’d always been like this, too naïve, always expecting the best of peopl-

“But I like that” Bakugo finished, an amused smile moving slowly over his mouth, sharp red eyes softening into liquid magma, stepping forward, holding out Izuku’s wallet in his long, golden, fine boned hands.

Izuku stared, fascinated. He’d always had a thing for hands, despite trying to push the fascination down. Even as a child when he’d watch All Might on Sunday mornings, his huge fists battering bad guys into buildings and during his teenage years when he’d spent countless hours holding his mother’s small, soft hands when she was anxious. He’d spent days drawing them, marvelling over the power they held, to help others, to comfort a child, to create something, to care for something. To give pleasure to someone. Sometimes, that fascination would resurge with an urgency too consuming to control. The wonder swelling like an orchestra, drowning out every thought in his mind, making his own fingers twitch with hope.

But then, that phantom pain would resurge. Memories flashing into his mind like firecrackers. The smell of blood filling his nostrils. The image of heavy boots smashing onto his fingers. Tomura’s voice screaming into his ears, face maniacal, his fingers fisting into his hair. Starting with taps, then slaps, physical actions leading to emotional decay…delivered through his hands.

Izuku could feel that decay now, writhing around in his stomach, illogical thoughts tearing through his mind despite his attempts to quell them, thoughts he knew couldn’t possibly be true. _How did Bakugo even find him_… _how?_ his mind raced_, maybe Tomura sent him._

His optimism retreated in lieu of a pit of snakes, writhing against his ribs and pushing up to his throat, filling his mouth with bile, his brain with static. His mind flickered frantically, trying desperately to recall his nearest exits, the ones he’d memorised when he’d moved in just in case Tomura came back, retracing the steps in his head. He was ready to do it, his calves tensing, the battle of logic and fear within his mind almost crippling him.

“Hey…hey!”

Bakugo’s voice crackled into Izuku’s frantic thoughts, sound dipping in and out like a poor radio signal.

“Are you okay?... Izuku, Izuku, look at me…look at me okay?”

Izuku’s muscles locked, stinging eyes darting up to Bakugo’s face, liquid green clashing with deep, steady maroon, clinging on for dear life. Blond hair, not pale blue…Bakugo…_Bakugo_.

“I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable…I shouldn’t have said that” Bakugo continued slowly, voice soft and smooth, eyes steady, palms raised and splayed open as if placating a frightened animal, wallet discarded onto the carpet. “You don’t have to say anything, it’s fine, deep breaths now…it’s okay…it’s okay. I probably seem like some crazy fucking stalker huh?” Bakugo finished, a hint of distress creeping into his tone, colouring his voice like ink in water.

Izuku just stood there, gasping for air, taking deep swift breaths as the irony of Bakugo’s statement registered in his mind, as if Izuku hadn't been watching Bakugo from the shadows for months now. It was so comical Izuku had the sudden, insane urge to laugh, amusement releasing the tension in his muscles like air from a balloon. Eventually his heartbeat began to slow, his thoughts falling together in line again and with it, the urge to reassure Bakugo bloomed throughout his chest.

“Oh god…uh n-no…_I’m_ sorry…I can’t believe I just did that…” Izuku trailed off shakily, embarrassment wetting his eyes before blurting out “I don’t think you’re a stalker!”

Bakugo’s eyebrows popped up, palms still up in the air, “You don’t have to apologise for that…I understand how fucking weird this is” Bakugo continued “me showing up at your door with your wallet and everything.”

Bakugo stepped closer, hesitantly, broad shoulders hunched as if he was trying to make himself less intimidating.

“Look...” Bakugo began, tone hushed and tentative “I asked the receptionist about you. Kirishima, a friend of mine, said he recognised you from your ID, said he saw you around here sometimes. She was so busy that she took one look at the picture and told me your flat number because I live in the building too, which she shouldn’t have by the way, fucking unsafe as shit” he added.

“I should have explained earlier, maybe I should have just posted it through your door I just…”

Bakugo hesitated, gaze flicking away momentarily, before returning to Izuku’s features, belying a vulnerability Izuku wouldn’t have thought possible in a man so imposing.

“I saw you in Sorahiko’s…I didn’t get a chance to talk to you and I wanted to, but you left before I had the chance. I can’t seem to stop thinking about you, no matter what I do, fuck, I just kept playin’ it out in my mind.”

There were so many things to note about this little speech that for once, Izuku was completely silent, completely still. No fidgeting, no mumbling, nothing. _It was the way he said ‘you’ _a voice whispered in his head. _He’s been thinking about me, and I should fear that, but I don’t anymore. _He _couldn’t_ be scared anymore. Bakugo had stripped Izuku’s suspicions. With his body language, his distress, his words, without even really trying to. Instead, he’d done the opposite. Accepted Izuku’s suspicions, accusations, Izuku’s blame, before Izuku had even gotten a chance to articulate his own thoughts.

“…You want me to step back? I will if i'm making you uncomfortable. I can just post the wallet and go, you don’t even have to move.”

It was Bakugo’s expression that secured it for Izuku, even though his words alone were soft enough to wrap him up, cocoon him in comfort. He looked so sincere, so steady, so solemn, as if he’d made a grievous mistake and didn’t know how to rectify it. As if he’d broken something into a million shards and been given a tube of superglue and a prayer to fix it. It made Izuku’s chest ache, his throat swell as if he was trying to swallow a golf ball. He hated it, that expression. He never wanted to see it on Bakugo’s face again, that undeserved guilt, that deep self-loathing. _Stop it, Izuku, you can stop it. Take the risk, push through it, push through it…but how?_

Izuku did the only thing he could think of…not think. He stepped forward, body a riot of nerves, feeling as if he was travelling through soup, bringing his palms up slowly, up, up over his head to clasp around Bakugo’s still splayed palms, around his long fingers, bringing them down towards his own chest. Warm. His skin was so warm, the pleasant heat rolling like magma through Izuku’s skin and into his bones, filling up his mind with smoke. He’d been so touch starved for so long that the innocent touch felt like sex, made his lids heavy and his breathing laboured as he raised his head to look into Bakugo’s eyes.

“No” Izuku whispered. “Please…no”.

Bakugo blinked down at him incredulously. Expression fierce, consuming every inch of Izuku’s presence, looking at him so hard it felt like a physical caress over Izuku's oversensitive skin, tightening his fingers around Izuku’s as if they were the most precious of gifts. Lips trembling around the ghost of a smile, he opened his mouth.

“I’m Bakugo”, he said.


	5. Knees

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the delay everyone, life has been kicking my arse. Thank you all for taking the time to read so far and talk to me in the comments, if you'd like.

Izuku really believed that things would go back to normal after that moment of lunacy in the hallway. After all, it only took the muffled thump of a door closing somewhere across the hall to break the spell, to have Bakugo blinking out of his reverie as if waking from a deep sleep.

He’d left quite quickly after that, but not before punching his phone number into Izuku’s phone, muttering lowly, voice like crushed gravel. “If you need anything Izuku…want anything at all, talk to me okay? just talk to me.” His emotion re-contained and re-shelved, simmering under his skin once more as he walked down the hallway leaving Izuku shaking and alone, back pressed firmly against his front door.

In fact, he’d half convinced himself it never happened at all, his cheeks flooding with warmth whenever he thought about what he’d done. Stepping forward, _holding Bakugo’s hand like that_. In the clear light of day, the memory was enough to make steam push out from his ears and suck his breath in on a wince.

For the most part, things _hadn’t _changed too much, but the small things that had began to slowly but surely tilt the access of Izuku’s world, spinning him out of his comfort zone with every passing day. A hushed hello here when they’d pass in the hallways, a close-lipped smile there when they’d spot each other in the courtyard. A nod and beckoning of the hand at Sorahiko’s. Bakugo’s eyes would flash like a flame in the dark when Izuku would shuffle over, coffee cup warming his palms, every time their tentative ritual of drinking coffee together a few times a week was fulfilled.

One thing that wasn’t new and hadn’t stopped though, was Izuku’s dreams. Hot, languorous dreams crawling slowly into his subconscious every night. They were worse now he’d felt his skin. Felt his warmth up close. Looked into his eyes. Been looked back at. They rose up in his subconscious like a tidal wave, minute ripples and murky outlines solidifying into rough hands and a rougher voice, so vivid that it seemed as if he could feel the hard floor beneath his knees as he knelt between Bakugo’s split thighs. Could feel his own plush mouth stretched tightly as he sucked and licked Bakugo’s swollen head, tasting salt and sweet as that thick cock slid in and out, squeezing his own fingers in a tight grip around the silky smooth skin he couldn’t fit into his mouth. Izuku could hardly stand it. Even in his dreams, he’d work himself up into a frenzy. Feeling the spit pooling around his lips, Bakugo’s hand pushed deep and tight into his curls, the other mapping the bare skin of Izuku’s shoulders, his neck, cupping his cheek almost tenderly, as if he wasn’t trying to swallow a mouth full of his dick.

It just felt so real, so right, the hot cock in his mouth, the soft downy hair around the base prickling his nose when he pushed as far as he could, even as tears blurred his vision and wetness rolled down his face. He wanted to hear Bakugo’s voice. The mere thought of it would make his movements sloppy and feverish, his hips buck and gyrate in frustration against empty air, desperately seeking friction. He wanted to hear Bakugo come undone, bring him to his knees. Make this man, so formidable and un-moving shake and gasp. Hear that smoky voice pour out over his senses. But, as always, he’d end wanting. His subconscious unable to piece together the reality of Bakugo pushed to his limits, replacing the sounds Izuku so desperately craved with a patchwork of moans and gasps he’d heard from films on tv and porn on the internet.

He’d always wake up guilty, too. After the last of the pleasure had ebbed away and he stood naked and foolish in the shower, water rushing over his overheated skin, washing the sweat and come from his body. It felt like a betrayal, a sin, as if he was stomping on Bakugo’s trusting outstretched hands. _He’s just being kind…and I’m here having weird repressed sex dreams about him. _

He was still thinking about it later in the morning as he dragged himself into his apartment block’s gym, jaw cracking as he yawned and plodded into the changing rooms. He definitely thought about it again when Bakugo’s redheaded friend bounded up to him as he was getting changed. His disposition so honest and unassuming, Izuku found himself relaxing as Kirishima introduced himself, despite him being a relative stranger who also happened to be built like a brick shit house.

“…He doesn’t like surprises…but we’re throwing him one anyway on Friday night…” Kirishima rambled easily whilst packing his sweaty clothes into a particularly jarring zebra patterned backpack. 

“You should totally come dude, it’s gonna be low key but still fun” he grinned, flashing crooked teeth that were somehow jagged yet endearing.

The surprise invite was so unexpected to Izuku that he couldn’t disguise his joy, shy delight sweeping over him like a balm.

“I…do you want me to bring something? I can help” Izuku trailed off…mumbling to himself, mind spinning over decorations, party food, birthday banners and napkins.

“Oh no it’s fine” Kirishima laughed easily, holding up his palms as if it would cap the verbal tidal wave Izuku was currently in the midst of.

“Me and some of Bakugo’s other friends from 1A, you know the station right? Well we got it all sorted, you just have to bring yourself!”

It was the word friends that did it. Is that what he and Bakugo were? Could they even call themselves that? After all, they’d only seemed to stick to their casual coffee shop habit, their casual glances and their casual ‘hello’s’. Izuku was pretty sure that what they had barely constituted as an acquaintance. He rubbed his lower lip nervously, worrying the tender skin between his fingers, the unpleasant thought of overstepping the tentative boundary he and Bakugo had stumbled into dancing through his mind once more. It was enough to make his mouth dry. _How do I get out of this…how do I…think Izuku, think!_

He’d managed to form two barely passable excuses before Kirishima interrupted his planning.

“You know he talks about you, right?”

Izuku jumped, eyes widening to cartoonish proportions as he realised Kirishima had been watching him, watching the emotions play out on his face like a slideshow. Kirishima continued, in a tone even Izuku, a stranger, could recognise as uncharacteristically low and serious.

“He was so harsh, you know, a few years ago. He’d walk around with this chip on his shoulder, like it was just him against the world, snapping at people for no reason like he had something to prove. Got to the point that people at the station just stopped trying with him” he raised his arm, biceps flexing as he scratched nervously at the scar above his eyebrow, “I don’t even like saying that about him now cos he’s changed so much, you’d barely recognise the old him. He’s my best friend and I’ve know him for so long yano, I know him, warts and all.”

“But” Kirishima raised his eyes, looking straight at Izuku “you two, whatever you have going on between you…and you do have something, I think he’s even better for it. I think you’re good for him, Izuku. Take a chance on him.”


	6. Stitch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, thank you so much for taking the time to read and comment. Please consider the tags again for this chapter. Talk to me in the comments if you'd like.

It had taken a while for Izuku to psych himself up. He’d finally taken an uber to the address after he’d gotten Kirishima’s text, interposed needlessly yet pleasantly by several arm flexing emoji’s and exclamation marks. He’d already danced around with his own thoughts in the week since the prospect of coming to the party had been introduced, tiptoeing around the idea until he’d finally grown tired of thinking about it. He was here and he was going to do this, despite being three hours late and probably missing the surprise element of the party.

Izuku finally allowed himself to turn the corner of the large iron gate, moving from where he’d hastily stumbled out of the uber with his phone clutched tightly in one sweaty palm and a small orange gift bag gripped tightly in the other. He forced himself to breathe as he took in his surroundings and began to walk, taking refuge in the waning glory of the gardens in front of him at near sunset. The canopy of maple trees lining an extended driveway, forging a tunnel through the sweeping sea of liquid green grass. The sun shimmering over the gardens, bathing the scenery in burnished gold as he neared the mansion that sat like a crown amid the glory of the grounds.

He wondered to himself, _why did he feel so uncomfortable in his own skin?_, more so today than most. His breathing pushing heavily through his lips, not from exultation but from anxiety as he stepped up the porch and stood outside the grand doorway. Heavy, left slightly ajar, beckoning him in. He stood, feeling the pounding bass vibrate up through his feet and settle into his bones, a sea of voices rattling the base of his skull, disorienting him as if he were about topple into a burning inferno. Izuku mulled over the question as he brushed the back of his hand across the black jeans that slid against his skin and punctuated his every move.

_Maybe it was the clothes,_ he thought, _I'm not used to this_.

Everything chosen by him, for his own desires and his own purpose. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d dressed with man in mind before this evening in a way that wasn’t dictated by a fist. Had it been years? he couldn’t even remember.

It had started with something as small and unassuming as his socks, when he’d forgotten to wear the ones Tomura had bought him one weekend. He remembered how he'd had flown into a cracking rage so unexpected and volatile that Izuku had thought nothing of walking around barefoot for the next four days as penance, as Tomura had requested. It had escalated rapidly after that. When Izuku had joked about Tomura’s notoriously bad cooking skills and had returned home to their apartment to see the entire contents of the fridge upended over the floor, the walls, the ceiling, Tomura sitting in the midst of the destruction, blinking blankly at his own hands. Izuku had always dismissed these instances as they’d escalated. The pettiness. The pushes. The punches. The control stifling his being like hands around his neck, until Tomura had actually put his hands around his neck on a late summer evening like this. Izuku couldn’t even remember what had triggered the argument, but he remembered what had ended it. His own fist. Jutting up, smashing into Tomura’s face, into the features he’d loved so fiercly. Because he’d said it. The one thing Izuku wouldn’t stand for.

“You just don’t listen zuku” Tomura had heaved, spit flickering over his lips as he squeezed his fingers tighter “what do I have to do to make you listen to me, huh? Maybe I should visit your mother, that bitch, you always listen to her, maybe I should have a little word with her and then you’ll do as you’re told”.

He still remembered the blood gushing, like a river in the snow of Tomura’s pale skin. Remembered it covering his hands, as he’d drawn his fist back, scarred and misshapen from earlier abuse, and swung it again. Still remembered running through the streets on that summer evening with nothing but his wallet, the warmth of the sun washing over him like a baptism, legs eating up the ground and wondering to himself, _are lessons learned if less is learnt?_

The sudden swing of the door opening is what brought Izuku back, followed by a man who seemed to be larger than life, blinking down owlishly at him with soft black eyes, buzz-cut and bulging muscles in a black tank only adding to the intimidation. That was until he grinned, the dying sunlight glinting off his straight white teeth.

“Hello! Are you here for the party?” he boomed, voice so loud it cut straight through the chorus of voices and heavy bass and continuing to speak before Izuku could even think of a response.

“I’m Inasa! it’s nice to meet you! you’ve already missed the surprise I’m afraid, but come in, come in!”

“Uh…I’m Izuku” he replied dumbly, overwhelmed by the hurricane of a man that continued to ramble on incessantly as he led him into the mansion, taking in the grand décor, the refined art, furniture, grand balustrade and antique mirrors lining the walls, all currently covered with orange and black streamers, remnants of cake and intoxicated bodies that seemed to encompass every inch of space. It was an inferno, the smell of alcohol burning his nostrils, the thumping music, the sweat dripping from the roof and shouts of laughter and chatter pouring over his senses like gasoline.

“Oh! Izuku Midoriya?! I was wondering what you’d look like” Inasa turned quickly, causing Izuku to stop abruptly and squish into several people. Inasa squinted down at him, his eyes moving over his features with renewed interest, grin growing even wider if possible “Oh yes, I can see it now”.

Izuku opened his mouth to reply, to ask what he could see, when he spotted a familiar shock of red hair heading his way. Well, second actually, after the legs of the pink haired girl wrapped around Kirishima’s shoulders, her bracelet adorned wrists waving in the air as she balanced precariously. 

“Hey Izuku, you made it” Kirishima laughed, squatting down so the girl could stumble onto the sticky floor before planting a kiss to his cheek and stumbling off. “Not exactly low key huh?” he smiled ruefully.

Izuku chuckled, face melting into his first relaxed smile since the morning, “You know actually I don’t think it’s loud enough” he shouted over the din, eyes roving over the vaulted ceilings, “who’s place is this?”

“Ah, that would be my Shoto’s…or should I say his fathers” Inasa boomed again, somehow managing to make Izuku jump despite the roaring noise.

”He very graciously offered to host Bakugo’s party while house sitting for his father…isn’t that kind of him?” he gestured a massive arm toward the red and white haired man in the midst of the room on a makeshift raised platform directly under an ornate chandelier, who was somehow managing to DJ with complete focus and detachment from those around him.

Kirishima shot Izuku a wry look…”yeah dude, really considerate of him, I’m sure his old man’s gonna be real happy when he finds out.” But Inasa’s attention had already been stolen, face a mask of pure devotion as he ambled up onto the platform and wrapped his arms around the smaller man, squeezing a small smile out of the DJ.

“Well then…you want a drink?” Kirishima smiled, flashing a crooked grin and flinging his arm around Izuku’s shoulders when Izuku shook his head in polite decline, “shall we go find the birthday boy instead then? I think he went out for some air”.

“Y-yeah” Izuku mumbled taking in the myriad of people weaving in and out of his line of sight, characters that seemed so much larger than life Izuku couldn’t help but stare. The zippy blonde guy holding a red cup in each hand and gulping both at once whilst his purple and black haired friends screamed a chorus of “chug chug chug”, or the group of people throwing a small brunette up into the air so high and often it seemed as if she was floating, her pealing laughter audible over the music.

Kirishima led him past all of these people, the events playing in front of Izuku’s eyes like a film reel as they moved further and further toward the back of the house, bumping into less and less bodies until they reached the outside. Walking deep into the lush, un-manicured gardens that belied the carefully maintained lawns at the front of the house. Izuku was so engrossed in the garden, the tinkling of water from the elaborate fountain whispering past his ears, the intricate twisted metal archway leading into the fragrant rose garden, colours blurring in front of his eyes under the setting sun, that he barely registered Kirishima slipping his arm from his shoulders and retreating quickly back into the house.

Time seemed to melt away as he wondered through the foliage in a daze, brushing his pinky over delicate rose petals, letting the rustling leaves and the sweet, humid air fill his mind with a heavy haze and weigh pleasantly on his bones, slowing him down. He felt better, he realised. The people in the party, the steps he’d taken to get here…the heavy heat and the newness of it all causing an optimism to fizz and rise in his chest like champagne bubbles. It was so pleasant, made him feel so light, that he didn’t even jump when a voice spoke out from behind him. 

“You look like a forest sprite, Izuku” Bakugo whispered, the low sound moving through the air like silk in the breeze.

Izuku turned, smile already stretching his mouth, “oh yeah?” he whispered back, taking in Bakugo’s appearance. The crisp white shirt clinging to his chest and the neatly tailored navy trousers brushing his ankles.

“They told me they were gonna take me out to dinner and they had to pick up Shoto…those fuckers”, he said by way of explanation.

“Well, I like this look” Izuku replied, stepping closer.

“Oh?” Bakugo quirked an eyebrow in surprise, raising his hand tentatively to brush back Izuku’s curls before taking in Izuku’s own black jeans and green shirt.

“You look nice” he smiled, still whispering, “I thought you weren’t coming, you like keeping me on my toes huh?”

Izuku could feel the blush rushing under his skin, burning up under his pores, “Yeah, I uh,” he coughed, clearing his suddenly dry throat and holding up the small gift bag, “I got you this”.

Bakugo blinked down at it in surprise, “You didn’t have to do that” he said, but took the gift out anyway, squatting and placing the bag on the soft grass before standing and peeling back the wrapping with his long fingers.

Izuku swallowed as the paper fell away, revealing the small collector’s edition figurine of All Might in his golden era, trademark grin and bright colours flashing through the plastic casing. Bakugo had mentioned it in passing one day at Sorahiko’s, when they’d discussed their mutual love of All might, their favourite episodes, favourite villains and openings, speaking animatedly about a possible reboot.

Bakugo huffed, head down as he moved the box around in his hands, the air leaving his mouth in what Izuku first presumed was disappointment before Bakugo looked up at him and did something totally unexpected.

He laughed. The quiet sound falling like raindrops onto Izuku’s skin. He drank it in, all of it. Bakugo’s rare crooked smile, ruby eyes squinting in mirth, broad shoulders shaking, thumbs moving over the cardboard in what could only be interpreted as reverence. So simply overjoyed that Izuku was half convinced that it may have been the best thing he’d ever seen.

“I love it” he chuckled, “I can’t believe you remembered that, I bet you have the whole collection back at yours huh?” he moved his hand to his mouth, rubbing his lower lip with his thumb.

Izuku decided later, upon reflection of this moment, that some sort of temporary insanity must have had overtaken him. Maybe he’d sniffed some sort of strange plant in the massive elaborate gardens that made every inhibition fly out of his head like a flock of birds. It was the only excuse for what he’d said next.

“Maybe”, Izuku had replied quietly, “why don’t you come back with me and find out?

Bakugo had looked at him in shock and awe, head snapping up to stare, hot gaze burning into Izuku as he stood in the fading light of the summer evening, cashing in all his courage for that single sentence as the world reduced to just the two of them.

“Don’t you think that’s dangerous?”

“What’s dangerous” Izuku gulped thickly, swallowing his own trepidation. 

“To ask me to come with you, Izuku. To put that trust in me?”

Izuku swallowed heavily, lowering his eyes before fisting his damp palms tightly.

“Well I guess I could carry on like I usually do after tonight, never risking anything, never taking a chance on anyone.”

Bakugo winced, sucking in a quick breath before stepping closer, flexing his own fingers and clenching them tightly, as if to stop himself from reaching out.

“No.” Bakugo spoke, his smoked out voice as thick as a blanket. “I take it back. Don’t…don’t do that. You know…years ago, I would have said that. Told you that people shouldn’t bother taking risks, I would have read their earlier actions as a prophecy and told them to not even try changing because people never change….no, don’t ever do that, Izuku. Always try, especially you.”

There were so many things rushing through Izuku’s mind at this speech that he couldn’t even stop to think about them, one at a time. All he knew, in that moment, was what he could feel. A stitch. Right in the middle of his chest leaving him breathless. Tightening up, knitting two halves of him together that he didn’t even know had torn, loosened...frayed sometime long ago.

He leapt forward before Bakugo could say anything else, before any more words or any length of time could distort the beauty of what had just been said, and pressed his mouth against Bakugo’s. Cushioned by green, under the veil of the darkening sky.


	7. Baptism

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late chapter friends. Again, thank you to everyone who has left comments, kudos and even just read this. There are maybe two chapters left now. Please check the updated tags, and let me know what you think in the comments, if you'd like!

After all had been said and done, the frigid quiet was what left the loudest impression on Izuku. Not the violence, not the smell of blood in his nose or the scars on his hands, not even the threats that he would always be found no matter how far he ran. No…it was the icy silence. Izuku had ignored it at first, Tomura’s taciturn oppressiveness. As imposing as a glacier, distorting his perception like an arctic wind in his eyes every single time he’d try and thaw Tomura out. He couldn’t even escape it when they kissed. That invisible boundary, those unwritten rules freezing up his words and suggestions every time he and Tomura would touch lips.

Izuku would try so hard, pressing his soft warm nakedness against Tomura’s cold skin, moving his mouth against his chapped lips as softly as butterfly wings, trying in vain to love Tomura enough for the two of them. On the odd occasion that Izuku was permitted, he would lick and press his mouth onto the blue-haired man’s neck, his cheeks, his collarbones, only to be pushed away. Silenced and snarled at.

“I got no fucking feeling there, just get on your knees.”

And so, he’d struggle. Night after night, dressing how Tomura liked, touching Tomura how he liked, telling himself to just shut up and enjoy this, he better fucking shut up and enjoy it, like Tomura had told him to. He would have done it all. _Had_ done it all, for him. Had let Tomura use him however he wanted under the rose-tinted delusion that he would eventually melt him. But instead, it had left him frostbitten. Mouth frozen shut, lungs sheathed in frost. Upon reflection, he realised that it was what Tomura wanted, that change in Izuku. To cool down and ice up so he could be chipped away at and moulded into whatever shape Tomura wanted.

But this kiss, oh _this_ kiss. Moving together, getting closer and closer as if they could press under each other’s skin as they stood together in the waning light. Izuku’s palms gripping Bakugo’s biceps, his knees shaking as he stood on his tiptoes. Already burning up even before Bakugo broke his lips away, his breath hitching slightly before he raised his hands and cupped Izuku’s cheeks, brushing his thumbs over his freckles and pressing his mouth back to his, hard. Tilting his head, giving kiss after feverish kiss, so hard that Izuku couldn’t doubt that he wanted this, wanted _him._ Every touch, every brush of their noses and slide of their lips rewriting what he’d reduced a kiss down to in the past; a form of punctuation at the beginning of a greeting or end of a goodbye.

It was so new, so different, a baptism burning away every _touch_, every memory of any man he’d had before. He wanted to be covered by Bakugo, to have the man draped over him like a blanket, to be eaten up, consumed wholly, skin to skin, inside and out.

The compulsion was so strong that he couldn’t stop his disobedient hands sliding from Bakugo’s biceps, over the soft fabric covering his broad chest, lifting the fabric up, up, so he could smooth his palms over that hot skin. Wanting to explore every secret place, every variation of skin texture, the golden heat under his palms simmering, more intensely sexual than anything he’d ever done. 

“Fuck” Bakugo groaned, lips leaving Izuku’s as an incredulous huff of air burst from his lips, “yeah, touch me, _touch_ me”.

“How” Izuku whispered, reflexively, so used to complying with demands that he couldn’t help but slip back into that pattern…until he looked up into Bakugo’s face. Eyes burning hot under heavy lids, lips swollen and pink, expression fierce and earnest and _open._

“However you want, whatever you wanna give, I’ll take it”, he rasped out, chest heaving as he moved his palms from Izuku’s face and wrapped him up tight, chest to chest, hips to hips, his hardness burning through the layers of fabric. So close their noses were still brushing, so close that when Izuku poked out his pink tongue to wet his lips, it wet Bakugo’s too.

“Let me take you home” Bakugo leaned in again, pressing drugging kisses against Izuku’s swollen mouth between words, “I’ll give it to you any way you want, slow, hard, easy or rough, anyway that gets you off, any way you’ll let me give it.”

Bakugo broke away, eyes burning like embers in the near darkness.

“…let me take you home.”

* * *

They stumbled through the shrubbery in a haze, Bakugo trailing him closely, breathing down his neck, brushing his fingers along Izuku’s arms and making him shiver as they entered the house. He heard the familiar roar of voices first, let the bass re-settle into his bones as a sliver of rationality cut through his lust addled brain.

“Wait…wait” he stopped abruptly, giving Bakugo another needless excuse to press his body against Izuku’s back, “it’s your birthday…” he shivered as Bakugo’s breath whispered across the back of his neck, “w-what about your friends?”

“Yeah, exactly, it’s my birthday, and I wanna do you.”

They said their goodbyes quickly and at Izuku’s insistence, despite the coiled lust running like a veritable livewire between the two of them. It didn’t go unnoticed either, much to Izuku’s chagrin. 

“Hey, Bakubroo” the blonde from earlier slurred as he bounded over “I saved you some cak-“ he began before stopping abruptly, almost cartoonishly, his arms spinning in the air, balancing on his tiptoes as he noticed Izuku standing awkwardly behind Bakugo.

"Ooooooooh, it’s the guy!!” he shouted, without breaking his gaze from Izuku and gesturing wildly to the completely uninterested purple-haired man Izuku recognised from earlier in the evening.

“Hey Shinso!!! It’s the guy, the one Kirishima told us about, the freckled guy, the fucking freckle guy! with the nice as-“

“Shut up dunceface” Bakugo ground out as he snatched the cake from the blonde and stuffed the thick icing bordered slice into his mouth. “Tell everyone I’m leaving…and I said thanks.”

The blonde swallowed quickly, eyes still darting between Izuku and Bakugo as realisation flickered like a dimly lit light-bulb behind his eyes.

“Oooooooh, suree” he grinned sloppily, raising his hands in the semblance of a thumbs up and bouncing from foot to foot, “I’ll let em know…I’ll let em all know”.

* * *

The Uber home was torture before the sublime, the heavy tension settling thickly onto Izuku’s skin, the innocent brush of their shoulders in the back seat suddenly becoming lewd, obscene. He couldn’t help but move closer, so their thighs touched against each other’s in the dark as a realisation thumped through his mind. _He’s mine. For tonight, those thick arms, that broad chest, that angled face and long fingers…all mine_.

By the time they’d made their way into the courtyard, with the smell of roses hanging fragrantly in Izuku’s nose and the moonlight bleaching Bakugo’s hair a pale champagne white, he couldn’t help but turn and rub his hand over Bakugo’s chest. Just to feel his warmth through the fabric of his shirt, his skin, as he walked his fingers up to the exposed skin of Bakugo’s collar. He couldn’t have told anyone how long they stood together like that, staring, hearts beating together in the dark. And then, Bakugo leaned in and kissed him, his tongue pushing its way into Izuku’s mouth the way he’d been craving, making blood rush to his cheeks and further south, making him thicken up between his legs as he heard the leaves around him rustle. As quickly as he’d leaned in, Bakugo broke their mouths apart, eyes narrowed and heavy-lidded.

“Let's go, Izuku.”

They ended up on the sofa. Izuku didn’t bother turning on the ceiling lights, instead opting to turn on the television and the lamps around his small apartment. They sat, Izuku watching Bakugo swallow the cheap champagne he’d found in the back of a cupboard somewhere, his fingers twitching as he watched Bakugo’s throat move, his body heavy as if drenched in heat, lust settling heavily in his groin.

“C’mere” Bakugo muttered after putting the flute somewhere, leaning back into the cushions Izuku snuggled into every evening and patted his thick spread thighs. Izuku couldn’t move quickly enough, his body clumsy, filled with a pleasant haze, as if he were the one who’d been drinking. He felt Bakugo’s belt buckle pressing into his stomach, self-consciousness disappearing from his mind like water in a sink when Bakugo began to move his hands over Izuku’s sides, gently, gently, as gently as he was gyrating his hips.

“You feel that” Bakugo whispered, tongue licking over his pink lips, still swollen from their earlier activities, shifting, pressing his erection rhythmically against Izuku’s ass, a hot brand between them.

“Yeah” Izuku whispered, his throat dry as Bakugo’s fingers moved under his t-shirt, hot and pleasantly rough as they moved his naked flesh. Tracing the lightest circles towards Izuku’s chest, peppering kisses everywhere, over his nipples, his freckles.

“I’m gonna make you want me so bad it’ll hurt” Bakugo licked his lips, blinking almost sleepily, the tip of his nose pinked and cheeks flushed.

“Gonna make you beg for it.”

Izuku couldn’t help himself after that, the events of the night bubbling up and over, inhibitions spilling away as he began moving his hips back and forth, rubbing himself against the blonde man, wanting to beg him to keep touching him forever, even if it was only this, even if they didn’t do anything else and stayed like this all night. Bakugo could see it in his face, he didn’t even have to say the words.

“I’m gonna fuck you so good” he whispered, and Izuku shuddered, nipples hardening in the cool air as Bakugo quickly pulled his t-shirt up and over his head, spinning him around so his naked back was pressed against Bakugo’s front.

“_Oh_,” Izuku moaned, eyes turning heavy-lidded as Bakugo undid the fly of his jeans and pushed them down his thighs, rubbed the sides of his thumbs against Izuku’s heavy cock, making him shiver and thrum as intensely as Bakugo’s own hardness, pressed thickly against the small of his back. Izuku didn’t know how long they stayed that way, rutting against each other in the dim light of the television, the multicoloured lights blurring before his eyes, breathing heavily into the darkness. He couldn’t remember feeling like this in his life, so comfortable, wanting someone like he’d never thought he would, _could,_ again.

“Stand up, Izuku. Stand up, baby.”

Izuku obliged, shucking his jeans and boxers off, knees shaking like a newborn lamb as he turned around and silently took Bakugo’s calloused hand in his own scarred one, pulling him toward his dim bedroom. Toward his big comfortable bed that he’d slept alone in since he’d moved in. Izuku liked it, liked Bakugo in his private space. Watching him as the man removed his shirt, tanned skin, an abacus of muscled flesh revealed by increments. Green eyes clashing with red from across the room.

And then they were back again, all over each other, hands moving slowly over each other’s flesh, breathing each other in, pressing kiss after kiss on trembling lips. Bakugo lying back, one arm holding himself up, the other deep in Izuku’s curls as Izuku tackled his belt with shaking fingers, pulling it open, pulling his trousers off before throwing them behind him, drawing a laugh from Bakugo despite the tension.

“Eager huh?” he grinned, the light from the living room gleaming off of his teeth, smile predatory until Izuku wrapped his fingers around his weeping cock, bending down to take it into his mouth, pushing all the way down until his nose brushed the hair at the base of him.

“Oh, fuck, Izuku…that mouth!” Bakugo growled, head falling back on his shoulders, fingers tightening in Izuku’s hair. He gave him everything he could. Hollowing his mouth tightly against Bakugo’s cock, twisting his grip against what he couldn’t stuff into his mouth, not caring that his sinuses were burning, not caring that tears were eking from the corners of his eyes and spit was dripping down his chin. He wanted to drive him wild, to give it all and to take it all too. He felt hot…too hot. Naughty in a way he'd thought just wasn’t a part of his nature. He didn’t want to just taste Bakugo, he wanted to consume him, to make him forget everything that had happened before, to forget everything but this moment itself. Bakugo’s cock in his mouth, his heavy breathing ringing in his ears, his palms moving across Izuku’s back as if he couldn’t get enough of the feel of him.

He didn’t get his wish though. Bakugo pulled his hips back, his cock, wet and engorged, now visible as he lunged at Izuku. The smaller man let out a squeal as Bakugo flipped him to his stomach, voice curling like smoke around his ears.

“Enough playing around” he growled before kissing, licking, long languorous stripes down the back of his neck, his back…further…further, until he was licking deep between the crack of his ass. 

“Sh-shit” Izuku yelped, he could only lie there, toes curling in pleasure and palms clutching his duvet tightly, whimpering, arching his back and mewling into the air as Bakugo licked at him again and again.

“You look good like this Izuku…mmmm, _look at you_, you got freckles everywhere huh?”.

“Ah…ah! more…please, please!”

Izuku felt Bakugo pause, the hot breath against his skin as Bakugo began to massage the flesh of his ass.

“Hmmmm…” the man considered, “...Making demands of me on my birthday?…you’re a real slave driver” he teased, taking the skin between his teeth, scraping gently on that plump flesh.

“Bakugo…p-please…please” Izuku gasped out, voice embarrassingly high, strung so tightly he didn’t even have it in him to be self-conscious, couldn’t have cared less what he looked like, what anyone may have thought of his desire as long as he got his reward…and he did.

Bakugo dove back in, fucking Izuku with his tongue, wetting him thoroughly and eating him up. It started slowly, at first, then fiercer, the orgasm demanding more as if it was a separate entity, leaving him gasping, pouting and boneless. It was only then that he felt those long fingers creeping closer. Those fingers that he’d fixated on so thoroughly, stared at so intently for months and months, pressing into him. One, then two, scissoring him open, loosening him up until he was ready, making him bloom like those flowers he’d first seen Bakugo walking by, so long ago.

It was too much, Izuku realised, rubbing his skin against his soft comforter, watching his bedroom spin as Bakugo flipped him again, onto his back now. They were looking at each other as Bakugo continued to ease his fingers in and out, as Bakugo cupped his own stiff cock, rubbing and rubbing at himself, head thrown back and mouth parted.

It felt momentous when it finally occurred. In the dark blue light of his bedroom, the ticking of his bedside clock and their heavy breathing roaring in his ears, Bakugo’s strong hands branding his body, Bakugo's cock brushing his entrance. Hesitating, hesitating until Izuku smiled, wobbly but certain. A look of acquiescence.

A shift of his body was all it took. Bakugo pushing in slowly, so thick he felt as if he could feel it in his throat, as if steam was pushing out of his ears, overwhelmed with this man who’d seemed to burn through everything in his life. Izuku didn’t think it would be so liberating, being overwhelmed by this man.

_He’s going slow_, Izuku thought as he wrapped his arms around the bigger man, taking in his lust slackened expression, moving his fingers through the short blonde hair at his nape. Moving faster, Bakugo’s hips swinging freely as their mouths met, giving and taking until Izuku had to break his mouth away and moan. Bakugo’s hips jerked faster at the noise as if spurred on. His controlled rolling movements melting away, a burning urgency taking its place instead.

“Fuck,” he said “Fuck”.

Moving his hands up, taking Izuku’s own from around his neck and moving them high up on the bed as he fucked into him, the pleasure threatening to split Izuku in two. Making him toss his head from side to side, his legs shake, sweat stick his curls to his head and skin stick to Bakugo’s skin.

“That’s it…give it up.”

And Izuku did, groaning Bakugo’s name, gritting his teeth, body tightening around Bakugo’s length, making him grunt and squeeze his eyes shut as Izuku’s orgasm began to burn. Brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter, his moans sounding like sobs, nails digging into the back of Bakugo’s hands, tears running down the sides of his face as he came between their bodies, come splashing up to his chest, all the way to his collarbones.

But Bakugo didn’t seem to mind. Not at all. Instead, he bent his head again, hips still slapping against Izuku’s, and kissed away the come. Kissed over his face, the tears from his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the closed eyelids, kisses become sloppier and sloppier in his pleasure.

He wasn’t just thrusting anymore, he was rutting, his sweat dripping onto Izuku’s skin, groaning these low _hah’s_ constantly in a way that was almost as good as the sex itself, movement frantic but lidded, needing something…_something_. So Izuku did the only thing he could think of. He spoke. Telling Bakugo not to stop, how much he loved this, the way he feels inside him, between kisses and bites to his neck, his chin, his mouth.

“Come. Bakugo, come for me.”

Izuku watched as Bakugo lit up like an inferno, eyes rolling up and lids coming down, cock swelling up as he moved his hips through his orgasm, mouth open around sounds he couldn’t make. Shaking and sweating, gasping and glorious.

It wasn’t the most beautiful part. Not by far. The most beautiful part was the way Bakugo’s head dropped afterward. The blonde’s sweaty forehead dropping to Izuku’s shoulder, the smile Izuku could feel against his skin. The armour he’d always seen around Bakugo falling away, his own armour gone too. Lying naked and vulnerable together, nothing keeping them apart anymore. Just the two of them laying in the blue light, spent and stripped, breathing heavily in the dark.

“I’m scared, Katsuki.”

Izuku whispered, much later. After the sweat had dried on their skin, as they lay curled up together. The words Bakugo saying next knitting him together in a way that any grand proclamation of protection never could.

“I know, love,” he said simply, cradling Izuku’s scarred hand, brushing kisses over the shining patches of skin.

“I know.”


	8. Bathroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi. I'm sorry for the delay, I've been a little ill. Please let me know what you think in the comments if you'd like. As usual, thank you for taking to time to read and comment. It is endlessly appreciated.
> 
> \- Seren

They’d start their mornings in the shower. The hot, heavy water droplets falling onto skin like tears. The outside world still blanketed in darkness. Izuku would stand bleary eyed and heavy-limbed in a space much too small for two people, but he’d grin and grin and grin. They’d almost spend too long together, until the steam dripped from the walls, too preoccupied with tracing the soap suds across each other’s skin with reverent fingertips, letting the hot water soften up their muscles, rinsing the shampoo from each other’s hair. Until Izuku’s skin was pinkened and supple, and Bakugo would smile and wrap them in a soft towel even though Izuku knew he could have run the water much hotter. Izuku could have sworn that Bakugo’s blood just ran warmer than most, that there was something elemental running under his skin, specially formulated for a man who’d spend his working hours running into flames.

Gradually, Izuku came to realise that very thing Tomura hated about him, Bakugo seemed to crave. His stubborn streak, materialising into sheets and sheets of half-finished drawings, smudges of ink and layer after layer until he’d felt he’d realised his client’s vision, his independence and nerdy interests, his ostentatious red shoes and his unruly unkept hair. His autonomy and his sexual agency. And Izuku liked it. The nervous excitement, the pleasant trepidation a beautiful fight raging right where the fear of someone new should have been. Bakugo wasn’t how he’d expected. Not the closed-off man who seemed to belong to a distant land. Not a perpetually remote, stone faced idol made to be admired and feared and revered. Perhaps that was what had caught Izuku’s interest initially, the outward shallow and fleeting resemblance to a previous lover who’d scarred him so thoroughly, the image of unreachability. But not now. Oh, not now, when he’d been given the gift of discovering that behind it all was simply a man.

A man who’d hum out of tune when he’d forget Izuku was there, _consequence of living alone, _he’d confide sheepishly when caught. A man who’d confessed that he’d gotten his cooking skills from his father, as Izuku sat in his small kitchen one evening. The rain pattering softly as Bakugo moved around the worktops, back and forth to the sink, rummaging in the cupboards for the spices he’d made home in Izuku’s cupboards. It was a means of discipline, he’d explained distractedly, his father, Masuru, inviting him to learn as a covert means of therapy for a volatile teenager with his fiery mother’s temperament.

After a while, Izuku came to realise that intimacy wasn’t like what he saw in the movies, wasn’t supposed to be peppered with dramatics and violence only to be redeemed by tawdry and transparent gestures after the damage was done. No, Izuku realised. Behind it all was ordinary life. The small moments together. Massaging Bakugo’s scalp when his head hung heavy from work, when the apartment was quiet and the birds were singing and the sun was shining, but the people he couldn’t save were flashing through his mind like an old movie reel. Or when Bakugo would take Izuku’s hand in turn when it would cramp, holding it between his hot palms and burying his nose in Izuku’s curls.

Even when they’d argue, like after Bakugo had forgotten to pick up dinner even though Izuku had reminded him (twice) or when Izuku had managed to lose Bakugo’s keys and they’d had to get the locks changed, Izuku realised that this meant he’d _changed_. The mere fact that he was permitted to argue, that he could cry and get angry and be loved for it anyway, was a revolution. That he could tease without fear of a slap or being misinterpreted or wilfully misunderstood. That he could now differentiate between teasing and insults after so long of being berated and mocked, like when Bakugo had noticed Izuku’s high stacked shelves of figurines that one evening.

“Can you even see them from down there Izuku?” Bakugo had grinned, light glinting off his sharp canines.

“I’m not that small”

“Oh...5’3 isn’t small?”

“I’m not 5’3!”

“Huh? oh yeah, 4’9?”

“I should kick you out.”

“What did you say? Can’t hear you from down there.”

* * *

In public Bakugo would become reserved, retreating into himself, his all-encompassing warmth re-obtained and simmering under his skin once more. Brooding and perhaps to a stranger, aloof. _He’s the opposite… _Izuku realised. Bakugo was the opposite to Tomura, showing the worst of himself to people first. The snarling and the growling belying a deep protectiveness and obvious gentle care. Asking Ochako, the only woman in 1-a station, if everyone was treating her equally. Calling Izuku to say he’d be late for dinner because shitty hair had gotten ill and needed medicine. A man of few words who’d show what he meant through his actions rather than monologues, so different to the river of words Izuku would spill out at any occasion. He was so much more than what Izuku had reduced him to before they’d spoken, the unfinished drawings and fleeting daydreams Izuku had created so long ago appearing foolish and romanticised. Shallow. Yes, Izuku thought again. Behind it all was simply ordinary life, and Izuku wanted Bakugo all the more for it, standing in the same light.

After Tomura, he’d often wondered what love was. If he was even capable of recognising it if he felt it. If his capacity to love had spilled away each time he’d washed blood from skin. If he was too naïve and too unsocialized to experience a phenomenon he’d witnessed a million times. If he had been reduced to a pale imitation of human being, incapable of giving and receiving it. But he knew now. For the first time. Could feel it full to bursting, in his heart and in his lungs, in every breath he took, in every glace and every brush of their lips with a certainty he never thought he could feel again.

He was so certain that it almost didn’t come as a surprise to him when Bakugo confessed. They’d been in the bathroom in front of Izuku’s sink, Izuku's fingers curled tightly around the porcelain edge. Their eyes meeting in the mirror on the wall behind it, Bakugo's arm wrapping tightly across Izuku’s chest, the other hot hand on his naked hip as he slid his cock back and forth. Red eyes watched Izuku’s curls bounce as Izuku watched them back. Watched the gritted his teeth and pleasure-pain grimace as Bakugo found his rhythm. His face flushed. Pressing as tightly and as deeply as he could, as if he could never get enough. Whispering hotly against the pale shell of Izuku’s ear.

“Watch us, remember this, as we are now.”

Izuku could barely keep his eyes open, Bakugo’s pounding relentless, making him delirious, his skin oversensitive, the pleasure coiling tighter and tighter as he whispered again.

“Touch yourself, come on, I wanna see you lose it.”

Gasping when Izuku complied, touches becoming reverent thank you's. Moaning out loud, their release and almost destructive thing, leaving them spent and turned inside out. They lay there for what felt like a lifetime. Gasping with laughter, naked with their backs pressed to the bathroom floor, the sweat drying on their skin, their fingers intertwined. It was almost too much. The aftermath more intimate and soft than the sex itself, leaving him almost too raw, too exposed.

“I know I’m closed off” he whispered after a while, when Bakugo’s chuckles had dissipated into the air like soft steam. “I know I’m too careful and I have to stop thinking this way” he rambled “I know I clam up, and I have to stop soon…I know I don’t talk enough and I know it’s hard for you…” he trailed off quietly as Bakugo waited for him to finish speaking, his thumb rubbing over the delicate skin of Izuku’s wrist, letting their heartbeats steady. Letting the sound of their breathing echo around the small space before his smoked out voice filled the room once more.

“There’s no time limit for us, you must know that?” he rasped, making Izuku freeze, making his breath stutter in his chest. “You must know that I love you, and I’d wait for you forever, and that I know you love me. That means we give and we take and share our secrets when we can, and I’ll wait however long it takes until you can share them with me.”

Izuku turned his head finally, pressing his cheek against the cold tiled floor, warmth washing over him as he watched the blush spread over Bakugo’s skin, saw the vulnerability behind his liquid red eyes. _He’s blushing…he loves me…he’s blushing!_

“I’m not even afraid to say it, I’m so far gone I don’t care if it eats me up, hell, I’m already there. I’m already gone” Bakugo continued, voice shaking, breaking, as Izuku separated their hands and crawled over him, pressing kiss after kiss onto Bakugo’s face, tears spilling from the corners of his own eyes as he sobbed at the confession so saccharine sweet.

“Maybe I’m not supposed to feel this way this quickly, maybe one day I’ll look back at this and realise I spoke to soon, but I’d jump into any inferno for you, battle any flame, wait for any forest fire to burn out…I’d let you consume me whole, Izuku.”

* * *

Upon reflection, Izuku realised it was inevitable that Bakugo found them, he just hadn’t banked on it being on the anniversary of him leaving Tomura. They’d gotten so comfortable so quickly, knitting themselves into each other’s lives, swapping keys and passwords, clothes and belongings. After all, Bakugo had spent enough time in Izuku’s place on his own in the past that he had never even thought about him finding the drawings.

He’d opened his door to see Bakugo standing there, shoulders tensing in a way Izuku hadn’t seen before when he heard the noise, piles of paper he’d clearly flicked through, stacked neatly. The private sketches of Bakugo he’d drawn so long ago, dated because he was a stickler for organisation, staring up at him accusingly. Izuku was sure he let out a sound of distress, a little frightened sound that caused Bakugo to spin on his heel so Izuku could finally see that expression on his face. Stony faced, unsure, maybe frightened. Maybe even horrified. He couldn't tell.Like the man in the drawings instead of the man he’d grown to love. Perhaps if he’d trusted Bakugo more, If he’d been rational and hadn’t assumed the worst of himself, things would have turned out different.

“Where…did you get those” Izuku whispered, voice cracking, finding no reassurance when Bakugo replied softly, knuckles white as he gripped the desk, voice both cautious and curious. “I was just looking for…” Bakugo looked away, tongue moving over his dry lips, “You know what? It doesn’t even matter. You drew me a lot huh…how long did you…this was before the wallet, huh?” he swallowed.

“I just wanted…” Izuku whispered, trailing off and looking down when Bakugo stared at him, unable to meet his eyes. The silence as loud as a scream between them, his shame bringing tears to his eyes. The thought of Bakugo telling his friends, his family about the weird guy who’d drawn all those pictures before they’d even met, the thoughts…the thoughts-

“Hey…hey! don’t shut me out Izuku...”

“...Don’t do this to me, don’t you do this to me...do you remember what I said before...can you hear me?”

But Izuku couldn't. Could only hear sound falling in and around, landing around him like bombs, blowing away his defences, leaving him exposed. So he kept his head down. His eyes squeezed tight. Not even breathing while Bakugo stood there for what felt like hours. Just keeping his head down. Not protesting when he heard Bakugo sigh, huff in frustration. Not protesting when he heard Bakugo moved slowly.

“Maybe I should just go?” Bakugo said quietly, dejectedly, after what felt like a lifetime, voice as heavy as Izuku’s heart.

The choice had clearly been made, he’d been exposed as the stalker, the freak, the fraud who’d spent months drawing someone from the shadows. Who’d somehow managed to trick this man into a relationship. His worst fears reconfirmed, the shackles of his anxiety clamping down, locking his jaw up tight. Maybe it was okay, Izuku rationalised and he heaved air into his lungs, lip jutting forward, tears rolling down his chin, still frozen. Maybe he was just too strange, and it was good that he’d finally been found out so early on. He just had to accept it he thought, as the door closed behind Bakugo. Not loudly, not rattling the floorboards or making him jump, but quietly. Final.

“I just wanted to know you.” Izuku finished, when the tears had become cold on his skin, whispering softly into the now empty air.


	9. Drifting by

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry about the delay, writers block is no joke. As usual, thank you so much for the kudos and comments. I’m floored by the kindness you've shown me. Please talk to me in the comments if you'd like, let me know what you think. Seren <3

He dreamt that Bakugo was burning. Tanned skin curling away as if made of parchment, wisps of flesh drifting off into the hot air to be carried away forever. His arms, his legs, the chest Izuku had lay his head on so often had become a firebrand, melting, torching, breaking, burning Izuku apart if he dared step to close. The embers would whisper past his splayed fingertips, singeing his eyelashes, making his vision blurry, weepy…myopic. He’d been dreaming more than ever lately, yet he always woke the same way. Disoriented. Sweating and wet eyed. Falling into colourless days, into stretched minutes and cavernous hours, each second becoming something mutated and strange, making the rhythms of his nights and days sloppy and indistinct. Even his typical refuges had become his enemies. His love of comics and cartoons revealing itself for what it was, a fantasy. The episodic solutions seeming too easy, the cheerful colours and jaunty openings jarring in their optimism.

He couldn’t even escape it when he worked, the lines swimming in front of his eyes, his hands moving of their own accord, his fingers betraying him. Leaving him to piece himself back together when he’d end the nights with Bakugo’s eyes burning back at him from the screen in the mocking silence of his apartment.

He thought he could ignore it at first. The nothing that filled the space like a tomb, so cold, so empty, bracketed by frigid stone. Unbreakable even if Izuku were to take a hammer to it. Even if he were to pretend that it was something else that was making him feel this way. Tell himself that he’d always been alone. That he’d get over it soon enough…this silence that had reemerged like a phantom.

He’d tried filling it after all, but the laughing tracks that chorused the sitcoms just felt like an assault to his ears. The muted tones of the radio in Sorahiko’s would swim around his head. The rhythmic sweetness fading away, the melancholy lyrics that he was much too tender for drifting through his skull, rubbing against that sensitive part of his mind, smarting like an open wound.

_…was in a different place_

_tortured and drifting by…_

He didn’t see Bakugo anymore. Couldn’t show up at his place, didn’t know how to bridge the cavernous space he’d created between them. He couldn’t bear the thought of showing up on his doorstep, naked and foolish in the clear light of day. No…he was too ashamed. So, Izuku did what he’d become accustomed to for so long. He covered it up and buried it deep. Bit by bit. Any evidence that he’d given himself to man he didn’t deserve under false pretences, smothered under layers and layers of strict routine and nervous ticks, until every trace was gone. Until he could half convince himself that he was the protagonist of a cliché horror film, existing in a world made up by blue toned scenery with himself as the anonymous paper-pale lead who’d discovered his lover had been nothing more than a ghost, a figment of his touch starved psyche, all along.

Maybe that’s why he’d ended up at Sorahiko’s. So early in the morning, when the frost sparkled on the streets like broken glass, when his shower seemed cavernous and accusing, the water flowing fast and heavy like tears. When he knew Bakugo was at work. He sat, attempting to fill himself to the brim with coffee; unable to bear the reminders of Bakugo’s presence punctuating his kitchen in the form of spice bottles and culinary sets. But the peculiar thing was, that as soon as the coffee was in front of him, the eggshell porcelain rattling in Sorahiko’s shaking aged hands, he just couldn’t seem to stomach the thought of putting the cup to his lips.

“Ah” the old man whispered solemnly. His dry, weathered voice rustling past Izuku’s ears like pages brushing together. “I thought you were doing better boy”, he said, his next words making Izuku grip the table edge until his knuckles turned white.

“You know boy, sometimes just to live is an act of courage.”

-

Perhaps, he wondered wryly as he walked to the supermarket one evening, fat rain drops splashing against his red wellies, the fluorescent lights glaring through the shop window making him blink harshly, maybe he was the phantom after all. Floating in and out of people’s lives, occasionally making his presence known before fading out of memory again. Nothing but a passing thought, a blip in time. Because the thing is, no matter how much he thought he’d grown, how much he thought he’d changed, or what wonders life might promise or how vast and sunny the future seemed, there’s always something. A trigger, that took him back to that place, bloody and bruised, rough hands around his neck once more.

It would have been easier if it weren’t for the dreams. If not dark and sinister, they were harried and urgent, intangible and unrepentant, rising through the mists of his unconscious like an apparition. Ghostly hands would leave invisible indents on his soft skin, gripping him tightly as Bakugo moved slowly inside him. Relentlessly. So real and so wet yet so intangible, with an urgency that couldn’t be denied. His driving need, his liquid magma eyes peering down at him through a white haze, teardrops pooling within the depths of Bakugo’s eyes, so hungry and melancholy. Dropping like blood onto Izuku’s skin.

He’d talk too. Whispering those sweet nothings in the smoked-out voice that always threatened to burn Izuku up, that churned his insides more than any physical touch, the syllables dripping down, down, down deep, igniting that sweet ache between his legs. Overstimulating his already buzzing body, making him too wild and desperate for a contact he’d never have again, for the skin he’d never brush his fingers against in the pale moonlight, for the hitched breaths and pleasured gasps let out from the lips of a man who seemed so unshakeable. The proclamations of their love, that they’d whispered together in the darkness in muted tones on quiet evenings, flitting through his memory like a maelstrom, reawakening his repressed longing for sweet tenderness. His innermost desires called out in the dark once more, growling though the hallways of his thoughts every time he slipped into sleep. 

But then, as reluctantly as always, Izuku would wake. Izuku’s bed stretching out like an arctic expanse in the harsh light of day, the planes of his sheets cold to the touch.

-

He only realised when it broke, on that late winter evening. When the cheerful grin had smashed and splintered on the hardwood floor. When the screaming silence was unbearable and the shadows seemed to crawl closer every second, why exactly he couldn’t stop thinking about those dreams. 

He’d been cleaning for once. Balancing precariously on a stool, fingers extended limbs outstretched, desperately trying to dust his figurines that had gathered dust unnoticed whilst smiling down, unreachable, from so high on their shelves. It had been a careless movement. A consequence of Izuku brushing between the figures in fear of damaging them instead of removing them entirely that had led to the break. His favourite limited edition All Might, so like the one he’d bought Bakugo, now staring up at him from the ground. Sightless eyes, broken smile and chipped head on the hardwood despite all of his belated scrambling to catch it on the way down, despite his desperate attempts to piece it together before it was ruined beyond repair.

_They’re a memorial, _something thumped, deep in his chest, as he stared at the bleached plastic, irreparable and irreplaceable. It thumped again as he picked the shards up from the ground. The jagged edges leaving indents in the soft flesh of his palms, washing over him as surely as if he’d been doused in ice water, the outlines of Bakugo’s pained features on that last day, whispering through his mind once more.

_You broke this, _he thought, sweeping the fragments up in his hands, thoughts thumping through his body again, growing, quickening, thickening so urgently within his skull that he could barely see.

_I broke this…I’ll have to throw this out…forever_. 

_I hope he hasn’t thrown it out…_

_-_

His lungs were burning, and he must have looked as chaotic as he felt. After all, he was still in his all might pyjamas, his feet stuffed haphazardly into his red high tops, his t-shirt much too thin for the frigid winds blowing his hair from his face, prizing the tears from the corners of his eyes. But his mother had always told him that once he decided to do something, he was as mulish and forthright as his favourite comic book hero. That he couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be dissuaded once he’d been pushed to his breaking point, whether it resulted in him running away from one man, with only his wallet in the scorching heat of summer or running to find another in the soft black of winter.

He’d run to Bakugo’s apartment first, feet thudding up the carpeted steps of the apartment complex, legs eating up the stairs two at a time. He wanted to be earnest. To be face to face. For his words to be unobscured instead of made foolish and distorted through layers of cyber space. For the repressed whispers tickling the tip of his tongue to be said directly. For his words to be as raw and vulnerable as Bakugo had been with him, a man who’d melt into a sweet tenderness so generously given. But nobody had answered Izuku’s frantic knocking, his knuckles smarting, the air behind the peephole quiet and still, the carpet of the hallway scraping beneath his anxious feet. 

So, he did the only thing he could think of, the thing that had led him here to this moment, standing in front of a particularly surprised Kirishima in the middle of the nearly empty gym where they’d spoken all those months ago. Trying desperately to quell the frantic ramblings that he couldn’t seem to stop from spilling out into the artificially cool air. And Kirishima, saint that he was, didn’t miss a beat. He just nodded and moved slowly, hands left clear, relaxed and inoffensive by his sides whilst he led Izuku gently to the water coolers. But Izuku just couldn’t seem to stop talking, continuing to vomit up his anxieties, the time he’d lost, how he knew he needed to change, that he knew know that he wouldn’t if he didn’t at least try...how he hoped it wasn’t too late. Kirishima had paused at this last frantic gasp, before scrunching the plastic cup in between his hands.

“You know I figured it wouldn’t have been Bakugo” he said quietly before dropping the plastic cup into a nearby bin, eyes clear and serious. “I knew something was up, he’s been working a lot, changed his shifts and stuff…been in a bitch of a mood but he’s so private you know? He told us not to fucking bother you – his words not mine” Kirishima continued quietly.

“I went to his place but he didn’t answer the door, I…need to say it Kirishima, I can’t just…” Izuku trailed off, words drying up as quickly as they’d spilled out, a tense silence filling the space. 

“You know” Kirishima began, “Bakugo is my brother Izuku, and I won’t let people near him who’d play with his feelings-“ 

“I won’t.” Izuku interrupted, voice low and solemn, making Kirishima’s eyes widen, the scar under his eyebrow shining under the fluorescent lights. 

”I won’t, Kirishima”.

They stayed there for what felt like hours, staring. Red eyes, not unlike Bakugo’s, gazing solemnly into green. Izuku’s frantic urgency stilling into quiet resolve in the quiet of the night, before Kirishima finally looked away and smiled small but sure, his first since they’d started their conversation. He huffed out a laugh, stretching one arm behind his head to scratch his neck, before pulling out his phone.

“Okay…okay Izuku. Where do you want him to meet you.”

“The Courtyard.”

-

He heard the footsteps first, strong and sure from behind him. It seemed as if he’d been waiting for an age. Walking the courtyard alone, the full brightness of the moon layering the foliage in silver mist. The near dead, pallid begonia leaves creating a blanket of parchment over the cobbled pathways.

_He’s come back to me_, Izuku thought, skin warming instantly, blooming wide and hopeful despite the frigid wind and the icy rain. Kirishima’s text had worked, and now Bakugo had decided to come back to him. To offer a second chance Izuku probably didn’t deserve. He could hear those steps drawing nearer now, the crackling of crushed delicate leaves beneath heavy uneven footsteps...

But in that last moment, in the fragile few seconds before a heavy hand tore harshly into Izuku’s hair, Izuku realised he was right, after all. He didn’t deserve this, because they weren’t Bakugo’s footsteps at all. It wasn't Bakugo’s even gait, not his gentle hands. Not his all encompassing warmth.

“Hello, Izuku” Tomura whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *The song referred to in Sorahiko's is February 2017 - charli xcx
> 
> Also, i’m looking for fics to read. Recommend me your favourites, if you’d like?


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